


what lies behind your ribs

by stellarmads



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged up characters, Beverly and Ben are briefly mentioned, Fluff, IT is a metaphor in this AU, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, reddie is mentioned a few times bc i love my boys, stan really needs therapy and a big hug, there is a sex scene at the end warning, this got strangely poetic i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 04:23:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12380826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarmads/pseuds/stellarmads
Summary: Stan knows his role in the Losers.  So why is it so hard to embrace it?





	what lies behind your ribs

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request. Well part of it was a request. The story kind of took on a life of its own. I spent so long writing this, it's really not okay. Also it's not proofread at all because I can't find the energy to. If you'd like to request something specific here's my twitter is WITCHYRICHIE (with an L for the i) and my tumblr is reddieddie. Any requests are my choice and I choose what i'm comfortable writing.  
> IMPORTANT NOTE: Hi I'm legally an adult and because of this I'm gonna write this as an official memo. All my writing is based off of the book characters, NOT the child actors and if you're here to read this strictly for the children I suggest you leave. All characters are legal adults and I'm not above blocking/doxxing pedophiles. Now that all that's out of the way, enjoy.

Everyone in the Losers has a role. They play their part, say their lines, and it keeps them functioning, pulling them through each of their awful individual lives. Eddie patches them up after they’re hurt. Richie deflects awkward silences. Mike keeps all the knowledge they could ever need, and pulls Richie back from doing stupid things. Bev is their light, the eternal happy smile and voice of reason. Ben keeps them all grounded, brainstorms the plans. Bill, strong Bill is the leader, charging fearlessly. 

Stan’s role is to keep it together. Stan’s role is to observe and comment, to patch things up before they needed fixing. He’s given himself this role, this task, because it’s what he’s supposed to be good at, and it’s what the others think he’s good at. 

He’s not good at playing his role. 

Yes, he keeps the group functioning. He plays his part and at the end of the day he tries so hard to carry the script home. No matter how hard he tries, it seems to shed itself, burning to ashes the minute he’s alone. 

A small voice hisses that he’s weak. That he’s a coward, who can’t take the heat like the rest of them. He’s a fake, he doesn’t belong in that group, he’s so selfish for staying. They’ll find out, they’ll all figure out his facade, and he’ll back to square one, except the longer he waits, the more it’s going to hurt. 

He balances schoolwork, church, chores, social life. He needs this balance, needs to walk this fine line, needs it because whatever creeps behind him in the corners, it’s watching, waiting for one misstep. The one thing that’ll ruin him. 

He keeps it close to his chest. Keeps it close to his chest, right against his rotting lungs and aching ribcage, where he knows it cannot see what is there. The shameful, sticky secret he’s shoved deep inside those trembling ribs. It rots there, infesting him. It’s a disease, a disease he wants so desperately wants to cut out. 

Stanley Uris likes boys. Boys, boys and their loud voices. Boys and their calloused hands. Boys and their collared shirts and scuffed up sneakers. 

Boys like Mike Hanlon. Boys like Ben Hanscom. Boys like Eddie Kaspbrak, and even, God forbid, Richie Tozier. 

Boys like Bill Denbrough. 

When he turned twelve and blushed when Bill asked if they could practice kissing before he kissed Beverly Marsh, he had known then he was sick. That he was wrong, because his father had always told him those people were wrong, that they had a disease and needed God to fix them. It was because they didn’t want God to fix them.  
But Stan did want God to fix him. He wanted it so badly it ached, wanted it so badly bruises littered his hands, where he bit too hard keeping in the screams. Scars where he had dug his nails in too hard. It suffocated him, lungs withering at it’s very touch, and he couldn’t fix it, couldn’t right it, and it was wrong, so wrong, because if he couldn’t control himself, how the hell was he supposed to play his part? 

 

\---

 

They’re fourteen, and it’s a sleepover half of them aren’t supposed to be at. Eddie is there because he told his mom he was studying with Bill. Bill is there because he told his mom he’s doing a history project with Richie. Richie is there because he snuck out through his bedroom window. 

Stan is there because he offered to host. 

He doesn’t know why. He regrets it now, watching Mike sit on his bed, leaning against a pillow, knocking the others to the floor. Ben is watching, giggling and red faced, as Richie uses one of Stan’s textbooks as a “guitar.” Eddie and Bill have given up on trying to get the rest of the boys to actually work on homework, and are frowning over one of their math problems. 

Stan isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. He just sits there, hands in his lap, squeezing his fingers until they ache. He’s never like this, always able to act out his lines, but this is his room, filled with his secrets, and It smiles from the closet, waiting for him to ruin this, to stutter, to trip. 

“Stan the Man, what’s got your panties in a twist?” Richie flops down on the floor beside him, gangly legs sprawling everywhere, hands going to support him. Stan twitches at how close he is. 

Richie’s hit a growth spurt, and while he was already tall, he now towers above the rest of them. Sometime last summer he broke his glasses when he fell face first into a rocky stream, and he had finally switched to a slimmer pair, still black frames, still wide and magnifying. He had also had apparently just discovered the color black, since that was all that was his wardrobe now. Black band shirts, black jeans, black boots (which he had traded in for sneakers like the rest of them). He’d let his hair grow out too, a shaggy mane of curls that always hung in his eyes. 

It was torture for Stan. 

“Fuck off Richie.” He mutters, looking anywhere but that freckled face and wide brown eyes. Which is why he doesn’t see the hands creeping towards his sides until it’s too late. 

“GOTCHA!” Richie yells right in his ear, fingers dancing up and down his sides, finding the divots where his ribs dip and disappear. Stan yelps, trying to bat his hands away, but Richie just topples over on top of him, fingers continuing their attack, and there’s a small shift in Stan, as heat begins to build in his lower stomach, his sole focus Richie’s fingers digging into his sides melding with his heavy weight. 

In an instant he’s screeching, shoving Richie off with more strength than he knew he had. Richie goes sprawling back, and the instant the sensation is gone from his ribs, Stan can feel everyone’s eyes on him. 

It is curling its hands around the edge of his closet door, ready to burst free, and at the peak of his panic, he remembers his line. 

“What the hell Richie? I don’t want your grimy hands all over my shirt. I’ll have to take an hour long shower now.” 

Eddie snorts, seconds it, and as Richie jumps to his own defense, everyone forgets. Everyone except Stan, who is watching It retreat back, dissatisfied. 

 

\----

 

When Stan’s sixteen, Richie and Eddie show up at school holding hands. He’s been aware of the way Richie stares at Eddie when he thinks he’s not looking, he’s aware of how Eddie only likes Richie touching him, despite his aversion to germs. 

He doesn’t know how they feel okay showing the world this. For some reason, it’s like this cruel double standard. He knows it’s wrong to be so bitter when his friends are so happy, but he goes home fighting back shuddery breaths and a wet sensation in his eyes. 

It’s not fair! It’s not! 

He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, fingers clenching the edges of the sink until his knuckles go white. He can feel it, feel how close he is to exploding. There’s a wild look in his eyes and he can’t take it, he needs to let out a noise, needs to release pressure. A pained scream comes out mangled and stifled behind his clenched teeth. He bangs the bottom of his palms in steady bursts of three until blooming pain steals away his breath and thought momentarily. Behind him, It looms. 

 

\----

 

He’s turning seventeen in a few hours, and he’s over at Bill’s. Bill, who’s voice has dropped, Bill who speaks and holds himself with more confidence than Stan has ever known. Bill whose fingernails are stained pastel from his various paints. Bill who smiles over at him every time he sits down at his desk during English. 

Everyone else has already left, since it’s a school night, although he’s sure Richie is staying over at Eddie’s from the looks they kept shooting each other the entire duration of Nightmare on Elm Street. 

He’s tense and it’s not the R rated movie. He had thought he would sleep on the floor, like they had always done, but Bill is brushing his teeth now, getting ready for bed, and there’s no spare blankets pulled out, just the queen size bed, which seems to be shrinking every second. When Bill opens the bedroom door, smelling of his shampoo and mint toothpaste, Stan twitches. Obediently crawls under the covers when Bill makes his way to the other side of the bed. He’s stiff, staring up at the ceiling, positive he won’t be able to get one wink of sleep. It stands at the end of the bed, watching Bill. He feels so helpless. 

“Stan?” Bill asks, back turned to him. 

“Yeah?” He keeps staring the ceiling, refuses to turn and face him. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a birthday present.” 

Stan frowns. He assumed this sleepover was his present. 

It smiles widely and he stiffens. 

“It’s just that I couldn’t find anything good enough. I went through so many shops, but nothing seemed right.” He’s breathing quickly and Stan worries that he might be getting sick. He’s always had an awful immune system.  
“I realized it’s because I was trying to imagine h-how...how you would react to each thing I picked up. And none of t-them..N-none of them made you smile like I wanted you to.” 

His stammer is increasing and Stan finally turns, worried. Bill’s stutter is all but gone now, only appearing when he’s really stressed or angry. “Bill?” 

“I just. I just. I could only think of one thing.” 

Bill rolls over and suddenly he’s too close, just inches from Stan’s face. He can see the light freckles, fading as autumn presses on. He can smell his Ivory soap, and feel his hot breaths against his cheeks. There’s a roaring in his ears, but the silence is deafening. Bill seems like he’s getting closer, and his eyes flutter shut and Stan realizes what’s happening too late. 

Soft lips press against his. The same lips that he dreams about every night. 

It feels so right that for a second Stan forgets it’s wrong. For one horrifyingly perfect second, Stan kisses back, loses himself to his gift. 

It is leaning in to consume him, and right before it clamps down, he pulls back, eyes wide, frantic, heart beating terrified. 

Bill slowly opens his eyes, his expression unreadable. “I’m sorry.”

Stan chokes. “Sorry.” He’s met with silence, so he continues. “Then why’d you do it?”

He feels like he’s splitting apart. He wants this so badly. Wants it, and it’s so sinful that he needs to go home and bang his palms against the counters until they bleed. But he’s frozen, still beneath the warm blankets and his own heavy breaths. 

“I-I..” Bill looks terrified, and Stan realizes with a sickening churn in his gut he’s finally said the wrong line. He’s not keeping things together, not fixing things before they’re broken. He’s wrecking everything, ruining it, tearing it apart, because he’s sick, sick and toxic, and it’s bleeding into everything in his life. “

It is ready to break the boy in front of him, ready to finally take away his saving grace. He hears the blood rushing in his ears and he spits it out so aggressively it sounds backwards. “Thank you.”

Bill’s eyebrows furrow. “Stan, it’s okay if you d-didn’t like it.”

Oh god, it’s so hard, his throat is closing up. How does Richie say the things he does with no shame? How did Bill fight through his stutter? How does Ben finish his sentence despite the flaming blush? 

They’re brave. They’re brave, and right now he had to be brave too. Not for himself, but for Bill. His fingernails dig into his palms. 

“I did though. I liked it.” It doesn’t sound convincing. He adds: “a lot.” 

Bill nods, still confused, but there’s a hopeful look in his eye. “I wasn’t sure. You never.. Showed any interest.” 

How? How did Bill not see what was festering inside of him? How was it not glaringly obvious to him? 

“Stan.” Bill watches him carefully. “It’s okay.”  
It is watching from the corner of the room, somehow smaller than it has been in years. Bill’s hands brush his clenched ones, lightly tugging at his fingers until he allows them to uncurl, lets Bill take his hand beneath the blankets. It’s so small now, and the realization crashes down on him, seventeen years of shame suddenly beginning to crumble with one thought. 

It’s okay. 

Richie and Eddie knew it was okay. 

They said it was okay. Told the world every day, with intertwined fingers and small kisses. 

Bill knew it was okay. 

Bill said it was okay. Bill who was holding his hand, just like Richie and Eddie held hands, just like Ben and Beverly held hands. Bill who had kisses him, just like Richie and Eddie kissed, just like Ben and Beverly kisses. 

Stan was beginning to realize it was okay. Stan who was holding Bill’s hand, Stan who had kissed Bill back. .

It is gone now. He knows that it’ll be waiting for him at home, when his mother asks how the sleepover was. He knows It will be back when his father preaches of the curse of homosexuality. It will be back when Bill maybe suggests they show up holding hands at school one day. 

But It’s okay. The warm hand in his own squeezes lightly, and Stan squeezes back. 

 

\----

 

Stan is eighteen, and his role has changed a little. He’s still expected to be there to fix things before they’re broken, the mediator when Richie goes too far and Mike looks like he’s about to punch him. 

But he has some new lines now. 

Lines like holding Bill’s hand. Lines like kissing his temple before heading home. Lines like standing tall beside Bill as his father glares at them both. 

They’re terrifying lines, and Stan is still practicing. Sometimes he messes up, tenses, lets go of Bill’s hands when they get glares from strangers. 

But Bill is always there to help him. Bill is there to tell Henry Bowers to “f-fuck off” when he corners them both, voice loud and full of hatred. Bill is there to hold him when Mr. Uris tells him he shouldn’t come home tonight. Or the next. Bill is there to press kisses into the side of his face when a deep frown starts to form. 

He likes his new lines. It’s been a long time since he’s seen It. 

 

\----

 

“Bill s-stop!!” He shrieks, not unkindly. He’s laughing as Bill’s fingers dance up and down his side, but a small heat is building in his gut. 

Stan is nineteen, and outside their apartment rain taps against the sidewalks, and they had long since retired to the bedroom to watch some horror movie Richie had recommended them when him and Eddie had visited Portland last weekend. 

Despite the dreary, cold weather, Stan feels warm, nearing hot. 

“Bill” he pleads, a small moan slipping out. Bill’s fingers freeze, and his boyfriend peers up at him. Stan’s cheeks flush hot, both at embarassment, and how Bill’s pupils have dilated just from the small sound. The fingers resume their dance, lightly, and Stan squirms, a small breathy sound betraying him. 

“Is this one of your..things?” Bill asks, oh so sweetly, and Stan wonders how he got so lucky. 

He knows what he’s talking about. After moving into their apartment, Bill had discovered Stan liked to relinquish a little control and let Bill take over. Stan had discovered just how much he enjoyed it. 

Stan turns his head against the pillow he’s fallen against, curls fanning out beneath him. He doesn’t need to answer for Bill to know. 

Bill lightly presses his fingers in again, and as it continues, Stan writhes a little, legs tensing and twitching. He doesn’t realize he’s letting out small sounds until Bill curses under his breath, pushing up Stan’s shirt and continuing. His touch is so light it’s barely there anymore, but it sends shivers up and down Stan’s spine, until he can hardly stand it. 

“Please.” He whispers, and he knows Bill will not make him wait. 

His pants are being pulled down, underwear following, and there’s a pause. Bill looks up at him, warm hand coming to rest against his stomach. “Should I…?” 

Stan flushes and nods, squeezing his eyes shut under his gaze.  
Bill slowly begins to stroke him, one hand lightly dragging against his ribs. “What is it about this?”

Stan knows why he’s asking. He wants to keep him here in the moment, with him. “It’s..” He squirms a little, rushing the words out before he can talk himself out of it. “The vulnerability I think.”

“Exposed to someone else.” Bill’s voice has dropped, and when Stan meets his gaze it’s so dark and intense he has to close his eyes again. 

“Yeah.” He whispers. His stomach muscles are tightening, reacting both to the fingers at his side and lower. He lets out a small whine, and Bill speeds up, hand going up to his neck, hot trails up to his chin and back down his ribs. 

They’re reaching the tense moment, the moment where Stan gets so worked up he’s not sure if he’ll be able to come down. Bill quietly shushes his small whines and strangled pleas, hand going to grip the back of his knee, fingers digging into the ticklish spot behind it, and that’s all it takes before he jerks and he’s coming, sobbing, overwhelmed. 

Bill presses kisses against his face, let’s Stan breathe in the smell of Ivory soap and something entirely Bill, let’s it ground him. He leans into him, Bill’s hands going to trace up and down his spine, causing him to shudder from overstimulation before he shakily gets up and lets Bill lead him to the showers, where they’ll either continue, or get clean. 

From the heated look in Bill’s eyes, he can make a good guess.

As he undresses and unsuccessfully fends off Bill’s wandering hands, he decides he likes this role too.


End file.
